Hot Pursuit (24 page)

HOLLY ANSWERED
on the first ring. “Talk fast,” she said.

“Holly,” Millie replied, “sit down. This is going to take time to explain. Where are you now?”

“In the car with the president.”

“This is what has happened, or what we think is happening.” She ran through her day as quickly as possible.

“Tell me what you want to do,” Holly said when she had finished.

“We need the president’s authorization for a surreptitious entry into a building owned by a foreign embassy, and, if the surreptitious part fails, to engage and detain foreigners carrying diplomatic passports.”

“Oh, is
that
all?”

“That’s all so far,” Millie replied.

“Well, I’m going to have to get back to you on that,” Holly said, then hung up.

—

MILLIE WAITED
for the better part of an hour for a callback, and when it didn’t come she went into the conference room, where Quentin and his team sat around, looking nervous and occasionally monitoring the monitors.

“I take it you spoke to Holly Barker,” Quentin said.

“I did.”

“And?”

“And she’ll get back to us.”

“We’re losing time,” Quentin said. “We’ve got to do this tonight, if we’re going to stop them. We can’t be put in a position where our only alternative is to shoot down the drone after it takes off.”

“I’ve explained that to Holly, and I expect she’s explaining it to the president right now. If you want to be sure of being ready, I suggest you start planning for both alternatives now.”

Quentin stood up. “Okay, everybody, we’re going to split into two teams: Ian, how’s this? We’re sixteen in all—you pick four Brits, and I’ll pick four Americans. One of us will plan a black ops rooftop incursion, the other will plan to destroy the drone
after
it flies off the roof. Which operation do you want?”

“I think I’d better take the one that requires live rounds to be fired over London,” Ian said. “We can’t have Yanks doing that.”

“That’s good reasoning,” Quentin said. “You and your people take the conference room, and my group will meet in my office.”

Everybody started to move, but the ringing of Millie’s cell phone stopped them.

“Hello?”

“Are you with Quentin?” Holly asked.

“Yes, we’re in the conference room with the whole team.”

“Put this on speaker, then.”

Millie pressed the button. “We’re on speaker, Holly.”

“We’re now at the Rome embassy, and the president has just teleconferenced with Lance Cabot, Lev Epstein, and Dame Felicity. They have confirmed your account of the earlier teleconference as correct in every respect, so congratulations.”

“Thank you. What are our instructions?”

“You are to divide yourselves into two teams, each half Brit, half American. Team one, under the command of Quentin Phillips, is to gain surreptitious access to the rooftop of Regency House, there to capture or destroy whatever weapon it finds there, hopefully without being discovered or having to shoot anybody. In the event of the failure of that mission and the launching of a drone or other means of attack, team two, under the command of Ian Rattle, will destroy it the moment it leaves the roof, by
any means deemed necessary
,
up to and including RAF aircraft. These operations are to commence at six
AM
, London time. The Washington operation will commence at one
AM
, local time. You are to capture and detain Larry and Curly, the twins known as David and Derek Kimbrough, unharmed if at all possible, and transport them, under guard, to RAF Northolt airfield, from where, later in the day, they will be picked up by an aircraft and flown directly to Dahai. Is that all perfectly clear?”

“Yes, Holly,” Millie replied.

“I assume you’ve recorded this conversation?”

Millie looked at Quentin, who nodded.

“Yes.”

“Then play it back so that no one can doubt the instructions, then destroy the recording. Any questions?”

“Holly, it’s Quentin Phillips. How will the Washington operation be conducted?”

“They will be commanded by Lev Epstein, whose instructions are identical to yours. The Dahai embassy has a sultanate aircraft on the ground at Dulles, and Ali Mahmoud will be placed on that aircraft under armed guard. It will be flown to Northolt, where it will be refueled and take on the twins and be escorted by teams of British and American fighters to the border of Dahai on the Gulf of Aden. The Dahai pilots will be told that if they deviate from that flight plan in any way, their aircraft will be destroyed. Any other questions?”

Quentin shook his head. “No, Holly,” Millie replied, and they both hung up. “Well,” she said to Quentin, “you read their minds, didn’t you?”

“It would seem so,” Quentin replied, then he opened the conference room door and called to Ian, “Do you have—either in service or under development—a helicopter that can fly very, very quietly?”

“I thought you might ask,” Ian replied. “I have already requisitioned it.”

“Thank you,” Quentin said, “and please ask them to have two invalid litters aboard.”

“Already done.”

Quentin smiled and closed the door.

“Do
we
have such an aircraft in or around Washington?” Millie asked.

“You bet your sweet ass we do, and you can also bet that Lev has already commandeered it.”

DINO BURST
into the FBO, huffing and puffing. “What did you tell me on the phone?”

“That Kevin Keyes somehow circled back to the airport, entered Paul Reeves’s Mustang, reinstalled the emergency door, and took off in the airplane, headed south.”

“Holy shit!” Dino screamed.

“He’s not going to get very far,” Stone said.

“Why not?”

“Because they flew that airplane from St. John’s, Newfoundland, to here, and they have not refueled.”

“How far can he get?”

“My guess is he has about a third of the full fuel load. He’s unlikely to get any great distance with only that.” Stone went to the wall where there was a chart of the state of Maine. “Going south, he could refuel at Bangor, Augusta, or Portland, but I think he’d prefer a smaller airport—say, Bar Harbor, here.” He pointed at the field. “Once refueled, then the world is his oyster, or at least the country is. Funny, I had thought he’d head for Canada, which is only a few miles, but I suppose he had other plans.”

Dino turned to a Maine policeman. “Will you get on the horn and get that airplane met at Bar Harbor—also at Bangor, Augusta, and Portland, just in case?”

“Yes, sir, Commissioner,” the cop said, and dug out his phone.

Stone dug out his own phone. “We may be able to track him,” he said, opening an app. He entered the tail number of Reeves’s airplane and waited for a moment. “There he is,” he said. “This is called FlightAware, and it shows him headed dead straight for Bar Harbor and nearly halfway there. I’d say you’ve got about twenty minutes before he lands, and it will take him half an hour to refuel and take off again.”

The Maine cop put away his phone. “My people from the Ellsworth station will be there in ten or twelve minutes. I told them no sirens, no lights.”

Stone turned to him. “It might be a good idea to call the FBO at Bar Harbor—Columbia Air Services—and tell them to have trouble with the fuel truck. It might be a good time to drive it to the fuel farm and refill the tank, slowly.”

“Is there radar at Bar Harbor Airport?” Dino asked.

“No, not unless they’ve installed it since the last time I was there, last summer.”

“Bob, call our pilots and tell them to get the engines started. We’re going after Keyes.”

“I’m going to hand you off to the captain at that end,” the Maine cop said, handing him a slip of paper. “Here’s his cell number. If you’ve got a satphone, you can call him on the way.”

Dino pumped his hand and thanked him. “Let’s go!” he yelled, and he, his two detectives, and Stone ran for the King Air, the engines of which were already running.

In the air, Dino made contact with the police on the other end, then hung up. “They’re already at the airport,” he said. “You know, I should thank Keyes—this is going to be a lot easier than chasing him around the Maine woods with bloodhounds.”

“I hope you’re right,” Stone said. “We’re getting lower—we must be about to land.” He looked out the window. It was dark, now, but the ramp was well lit. “There’s the airport, and there’s a Mustang on the ramp. No fuel truck present.” They turned onto final approach, and he lost sight of the ramp.

They touched down and made the first turnoff. “Tell your pilot to taxi up behind the Mustang,” Stone said to Dino, and he went to pass that on to the pilot.

Stone got a better look at the Mustang as they made the turn behind it. The cabin door was open and the stairs extended. No one was on the ramp near it. “He’s probably in the FBO,” Stone said. He followed Dino and his men, assault weapons at the ready, as they entered the FBO, to be greeted by a Maine State Police officers.

“I’m Everson,” the man said. “We’ve been here for ten minutes, and we can’t find him.”

Stone went to the counter. “Did the pilot of the Mustang on the ramp rent a car?” he asked the woman in charge.

“No, but rental cars are over at the main terminal, next door. When he heard it was going to take a while to refuel him, he went over there.”

“Lead the way,” Dino said to the captain, who did so, his men hot on his heels. They poured out of the building and down some stairs, then ran up a short hill toward the terminal and its parking lot. As they did, a car pulled out of the rental spaces and headed toward them.

“That’s Kevin Keyes at the wheel,” Stone shouted, and the car came to a stop, short of half a dozen assault rifles pointed at it. A cop opened the driver’s door, collared the driver, and yanked him onto the pavement. In a moment he was cuffed and bent over the hood, as he was searched for weapons. Two handguns were found.

Stone walked over to the car, bent over, and looked into Keyes’s face. “Ah, Kevin, we meet at last,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know that you’ve spent your last day on earth as a free man. One way or another, you’re going to die in prison.”

“Put him on our airplane,” Dino said to the cops. “Bob, show the captain the warrant and the paperwork.”

“Did you refuel at Presque Isle?” Stone asked.

“Yep.”

“Then you can make it to Teterboro easily on what you’ve got.”

“We’ll take off just as soon as this guy is cuffed into a seat next to his buddy,” Dino said.

—

STONE WAS WAKENED
from a sound sleep as they touched down at Teterboro Airport, in New Jersey. An NYPD van pulled up to the airplane, and the prisoners were transferred and driven away.

Dino made a dusting motion with his hands. “I’m glad to be rid of those two,” he said.

“No more you than I,” Stone replied, getting into Dino’s SUV and settling in. “Wake me when we’re home.” By the time they had driven off the ramp, he was asleep again.

MILLIE AND QUENTIN’S
team crowded into a small briefing room at RAF Northolt. A large-scale map was pinned to the wall, and a red circle was drawn around a house bordering Regent’s Park. Everyone was in black battle dress, full body armor with helmets, including Millie.

The helicopter pilot held a pointer. “This is the plan,” he said. “We’re going to reach this point down the road from the house at a hundred feet, no lights. Our machine is very quiet, but we’ll follow the road as we descend, so that any noise we make will sound like traffic on the ground. Just about here, we’ll hover. At that point we’ll lower you to a visual altitude of about ten feet above the parapet, then we’ll inch toward the house sideways and play a red spotlight on the roof, so as not to interfere with the night vision goggles.”

“Any weapons backup?” Quentin asked.

“A man with a mounted, silenced, heavy assault rifle will stand in the doorway, ready to take out anybody you say. You’ll be in radio contact with your headset, and you will make that call. If anybody points a weapon at you, our gunner won’t wait.”

“How long to get to the house?”

“We will arrive above the house at precisely five
AM
,” the pilot said. “It is my understanding that the lady is coming along as an unarmed observer and will be strapped into her seat at all times. Are we clear on that?”

“Perfectly clear,” Millie replied.

“You will all remain hooked up at all times, until you enter the building. We’ll give you slack. Your headsets will work inside the house, so try and keep us posted on your progress. Another thing,” the pilot said, “my orders are, if anything lifts off that roof and begins to fly away, I’m to get the hell out of there in a hurry, because there will be incoming. We’ll snatch you as quickly as we can, but you’re going to get a ride while dangling, until we can get you winched up. If you’re still in the house, a van will be parked in the street to take you away, but we can’t help you get out of the house.”

“Right,” Quentin said.

The pilot consulted his watch. “Time to saddle up.”

The men filed out of the building onto the tarmac, where the matte black helicopter awaited, its rotors turning. Millie climbed in first, and an airman belted her into a five-point harness that held her tightly in her seat. “Just turn the knob to release,” the man said, tightening the straps, “but not until we’re on the ground.” Millie nodded.

Quentin and his men hooked onto their cables and sat in the open doors on both sides of the chopper, their feet dangling. They had had only one rehearsal, and Quentin was grateful for that.

The machine lifted off and climbed to a thousand feet, then turned and headed toward London. Two minutes out from their objective and descending, the sound of the helicopter was reduced to a low whirr.

—

THERE WAS
a little light in the east, and Quentin could see the park. Then they were down to under a hundred feet, and he saw a man walking his dog. The man didn’t even look up, and that pleased Quentin.

The helicopter came to a stop, hovering, and descended slowly. The rooftop was a hundred feet away, and Quentin could make out the yellow-striped awning. A crewman knocked on his helmet, and he pushed off into space.

—

IN WASHINGTON,
Lev Epstein, fully suited out, stood in the door of the helicopter and stared at the striped awning a hundred feet away. He slapped the team leader on the helmet, and he and they pushed out the door and started down, each controlling his own cable with a remote control. Lev knew he was too old and too fat to go with them, but he still wanted to.

They touched the roof and ran toward the tent, paying out wire. Lev saw no one else on the roof.

—

ONE FLOOR DOWN,
in the penthouse apartment, Ali Mahmoud’s eyelids fluttered. He thought he had heard a soft thump above him, but it might have been a dream. He tried to go back to sleep, but his brain replayed the thump. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, opened a drawer, and removed a .45 semiautomatic pistol—loaded, one in the chamber and cocked. He got into his slippers, thumbed the safety down, and padded across his bedroom, into the living room, and out the door into the hallway. The stairway door was a few feet away. He opened the door and listened. There seemed to be some sort of shuffling going on above him. Had one of his people gone up there to check things again? He started up the stairs and as he did, he heard a ratcheting noise from the roof. At the top of the stairs, he put his hand on the door handle, pushed it slowly down, and opened it, taking the final step onto the roof. There were dark shapes moving around, and the canopy was gone. He raised his pistol, but as he did he felt cold steel against his right temple.

“Shhhh,” someone said, putting a hand over his mouth, and his gun was taken from his hand. Something stabbed him in the side of the neck, and he went limp. He felt the sensation of being carried before he passed out.

—

IN LONDON,
the red spotlight came on, and Quentin saw two elongated lumps on the roof, between him and the awning. Then one of the lumps sat up, and both of them disappeared under a wave of heavy men. Two men in sleeping bags, he thought to himself. They were held down until the drugs had been administered, and he stepped forward for a look. Blond hair protruded from the bag. He switched on his flashlight and got a look, then at the other one. He spoke into his microphone. “Lower litters,” he said. He turned and watched them come down, then saw them, loaded, go up again and disappear into the helicopter.

When he turned around, the awning had been removed and he was staring at a spidery-looking beast about six feet in diameter with six rotors, each about eighteen inches long, and a pod underneath the thing. His explosives man was on his back, inching under the machine with a flashlight. After a moment, he came out with a piece of wire and a small cylinder in his hand.

“Detonator removed,” the man whispered into his microphone, then stood up and looked at the drone. “We’re never going to get this thing into the helicopter—it’s too big.”

Quentin lifted one leg of the thing and was surprised at how light it was. He unhooked his cable, looped it around one of the machine’s legs twice, and clipped it to itself. “Pilot, this is number one. It’s too big to go inside—we’re going to have to carry it dangling.”

“Roger,” the pilot replied.

Quentin pressed his remote control, the cable tightened, and the machine lifted off the roof and began to rise. When it was six feet below the chopper, he pressed the button again, and it hung there, suspended. “Number one to crew, I need another cable.”

The litter carrying the twins was lifted aboard and secured, then Quentin was winched up and helped inside. “Count off,” he said. The men stated their numbers. “Pilot, let’s get out of here,” he said.

The helicopter rotated ninety degrees and began to climb. Quentin sat down beside Millie, unclipped his cable, and fastened his seat harness. “Hi there,” he said.

She put a hand on his cheek. “Welcome back,” she replied.

—

IN WASHINGTON,
Lev leaned out of the helicopter and peered at the thing dangling below them as they flew over the rooftops of the city and began climbing. He hadn’t expected it to be so big. He made his way over to the litter and looked at the unconscious Ali Mahmoud in silk pajamas, strapped into it. “All right,” he said into the headset, “let’s head for Dulles.”

—

FORTY MINUTES LATER
at the military terminal the chopper descended by inches until the drone could be unhooked and removed to a hangar, then the litter was carried to the waiting jet. The sleeping Mahmoud was removed from the litter, strapped into a seat, and handcuffed to the armrest, across from where the two Dahai pilots sat, opposite the two CIA guards who would accompany them to London. One of them reclined the prisoner’s seat, then put a blanket over him and a pillow behind his head. “Sleep tight,” he said.

Up front in the cockpit, two CIA officers were completing their checklists. Lev tapped one of the guards on the shoulder. “When he wakes up, tell him that he has been declared persona non grata by the secretary of state of the United States of America. His embassy will be notified.”

Lev left the airplane and walked back toward the hangar, unbuckling gear and handing it to one of his men. Inside, the others were gathered around the drone. “It’s big, isn’t it?” one of them said.

“Bigger than we planned for,” Lev replied. He looked back and watched as the Dahai jet taxied away. He got out his cell phone and pressed a button.

“This is Phillips.”

“It’s Lev. Mission complete here. How about you?”

“All is well.”

“The airplane is taking off now. It will be there in about seven hours. You got the twins?”

“That part was easy—they were sleeping on the roof, next to the drone.”

“Well done, Special Agent. You’re going to do well out of this.”

“Thanks, but not as well as you, sir.”

Lev laughed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. When are you coming home?”

“Can I have a couple of days?”

“We’ll teleconference at three
PM
London time for debriefing. After that, you can take as much time as you want.”

—

MILLIE CALLED HOLLY,
who was already up. “It’s done,” she said. “On both ends—all of it. The airplane is on its way to London.”

“That is perfectly wonderful,” Holly said. “When are you coming back?”

“Can I take a couple of days?”

“Sure. I’ll see what I can do about an aircraft for you two.”

“You’re a good boss.”

“You’re a good kid.” They hung up.

—

AT LANGLEY,
Lance Cabot thanked Lev Epstein, then sat, sipping coffee and waiting for his call to his Yemen station chief to go through. Finally, the phone rang. “Yes?”

“It’s Carter, Director.”

“Scramble.”

“I am scrambled.”

“Ah, Carter. Tell me about your contact with the leader of the Dahai Freedom Brigade—what’s his name?”

“We’re not sure, but he answers to Habbib. A good man, sir. If they’re ever able to dislodge the sultan, he’ll be in line for the leadership.”

“I believe we supplied him with a dozen Russian SA-7 shoulder-fired missiles a few weeks ago.”

“We did, sir.”

“What sort of guidance system?”

“Laser-operated, sir. You lock on, then let it go.”

“Range?”

“Six miles target detection, four miles engagement range, up to twenty thousand feet.”

“Can you get in touch with your man?”

“We also supplied him with an encrypted cell phone.”

“Ring him up and tell him there will be an irresistible target arriving at Dahai International at seven this evening, local time. It’s a G-450, painted white, tail number Delta Alpha 004. I believe the wind is forecast from the north today, so the flight will fly the ILS 36 approach. The initial approach fix is out over the sea, about six miles from the threshold of runway 36 and four miles from the beach. We’d like it to fall in deep water.”

“Can I tell him who’s aboard?”

“Three of the sultan’s favorites.”

“He’ll like that. Shall I offer him an incentive?”

“Tell him if he hits the mark, we’ll wire a million dollars to whatever account he likes.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

“I knew you’d say that. Oh, and tell him not to shoot down an airliner, will you?”

“I’ll tell him to take along his binoculars.”

“And tell him to be sure to issue a statement saying that the Brigade takes responsibility. We want him to have all the credit.”

“I’ll see that he does, sir.”

“Thank you, Carter.” Lance hung up and poured himself another cup of coffee.